(Please note, if you are new to this blog, you may want to read this blog post first, for better understanding.)
Over the years, MOTH and I have traveled quite a bit together, generally within the U.S. We’ve enjoyed most of the places we’ve visited, many so much so that we welcome repeat visits. There is one place in particular that we share a mutual love of, and have made many trips there over the years. That place is Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina.
We go there to visit dear friends, the sort that are comfortable to be with whether you saw them last week or ten years prior, whether talking excitedly over one another or sitting quietly, each in our own thoughts. MOTH and I know that during our visits to Sullivan’s Island, we can always count not only on good company, but beautiful and peaceful surroundings.
During our trips to the island, we walk the beach in the mornings, enjoy breakfast on the deck, lounge by the pool, nap in the hammock, take a golf cart cruise around the island in the early evening. We dine out at one of the island’s restaurants or drive into Charleston, leaving at least one night to fire up the grill. No two visits are exactly alike…there has been golf, there have been plantation visits and historical tours, there has been shopping…but we can always count on the relaxing and the laughing.
The last few times we’ve been there, MOTH and I have talked about the fact that, it’s not just our friends and the island that makes the trip so special, but the house itself. There’s something about it that speaks to us, makes us feel like we belong there, as if it were our home in another lifetime or another dimension.
We were there again a couple of weeks ago. On our first morning, as we prepared for our early morning beach walk, we began to speak again of the house and how much we loved everything about it…it’s lay out and design, the use of the square footage, the outdoor living space. All of it…we love all of it. What’s more, the house on Middle Street sits on a wonderful corner lot.
To get to the beach, we walk a handful of blocks, straight down the road to the side of the house. Once we reach the beach, we remove our shoes and leave them at the post marked with the name of the street from which we just walked…the beach’s equivalent of a street sign. Then, MOTH and I head in the direction of the lighthouse, walking close to the edge, assuring that the Atlantic nurtures our souls in all ways possible. I collect seashells along the way, we pet wet dogs and laugh at their antics, nod hello to and exchange smiles with strangers, comment on the changing shoreline, and simply enjoy feeling the wet sand between our toes.
Once we’re close to reaching the lighthouse, we change our direction and head back the way we came. The return walk is more of the same, only this time, the morning sun is in our faces instead of on our backs. Eventually, we veer away from the water toward our marker and as we approach, I glance up at the sign. I can hardly believe my eyes…and yet, the only thing that truly surprises me is that I’ve never noticed it before now.
I stop short at what I see.
Our shoes, parked in a delightful and unsurprising spot.
“Station 29,” I say out loud, as if to confirm, and then I turn to MOTH.
He gives me a knowing smile and says, “I guess wherever we end up retiring, it’ll have to involve the number 29.”
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely.”